


Polaroid 3/23

by zombified_queer



Category: Smile For Me (Video Game)
Genre: Making Out, Other, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, reader's gender is left ambiguous, there's no plot this is just 100-percent Self-Care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-03 13:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20267092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: A perfect snapshot of the rain, Boris Habit, a dark apartment, vinyls trailing into silence, and you.





	Polaroid 3/23

You're in his lap. Boris—when did he become "Boris" to you? It's so intimate—is warm. Except his hands, but a doctor's hands are always cold. He warms his left hand on your burning cheek and his right on your shoulder while you kiss him.

His lips are softer than you'd expected and he tastes like mint. Of course he tastes like mint. He's a dentist for fuck's sake. Or, at least, he used to be. You've never really asked if he intends to practice again.

Part of you hopes he doesn't.

When you break the kiss to inhale, he smells strangely sterile, like a medical office. There's always something off about him, always something that toes the line into uncanny valley. Tonight, it's how artificially dead he smells.

He runs a thumb across your lower lip and it's strangely pleasant, despite the chill of his touch. It's grounding, in a way, to have that little shock of cold. 

Would his hands be warmer if he was a florist? A secretary? Weatherman?

Somewhere, in the dark of your apartment, the vinyl you'd put on has trailed onto its second to last track. It's subtle, something about true love crooned to gentle synths. All you keep are those old 80s synth pop vinyls you dug up while thrifting. 

You know the last song is even quieter. Both of you have stopped listening to the music by now. You should really turn it off, but you don't want to get up just yet.

And beyond your domain, thunder rumbles in the distance, assuring you that it'll be dark (the town always is past ten o'clock) and stormy night (the newsman said "chances of evening storms" with a haughty sniff). The sound of rain on the roof has that lulling effect, comfortable and quaint. 

A flash of lightning illuminates the room briefly. You're so close to him you can see his pupils dilate in the brief light. He’s so flustered by just kissing you. You brush a stray curl out of his face, tucking it behind his ear.

He doesn't say a word, but runs his thumb across your lower lip again, just as cold as before. It's such a subtle question, asking if everything's alright. Breaking the comfortable silence feels wrong, somehow.

Thunder rumbles again, closer now. It's so deep, like his voice. You'd never expect someone with such a cute aesthetic to have such a deep baritone rumble. But that could be your own bias.

The record takes over again, crooning more about beauty and something about angels in its final verses. The synths drop their high notes down, as if they're drowning at the bottom of the ocean. And it begins to fade out. 

There's a question on his lips as thunder shakes your apartment, pictures rattling in their frames. But it could be Boris' breath hitching as you adjust your position in his lap. Before he can even begin to ask, you lean in to kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Cringe Culture is dead, Babey!!!!! :-) Reader-insert/Canon characters is just good self-care!!


End file.
